Cackle(20)

“Yes,” she says, her voice heavy and slow with reluctance, as if she’s a child admitting to coloring on the walls. “It would have been torn down if it had stayed empty. I thought it would be such a shame to destroy something so beautiful, with so much promise, just because it was out here alone, having lost some of its former glory.”

I’m not sure how it could possibly be more glorious. Parisian limestone with intricate carvings, multiple turrets, dormers, wonderfully ugly gargoyles leering from high above. Two massive wings unfurl from a hulking center tower with a conical roof trimmed with greening ornamental copper.

It looks like a famous museum or a summer palace for royals. It doesn’t look like a residential home. For one person. I can’t believe she lives here. Chateau Sophie.

“What do you think?” she asks me. “You’re being quiet and I’m nervous.”

“It’s incredible. Are you kidding?”

Her cheeks go pink, and she claps a hand to her face. “Oh, I don’t know. Everyone has their own opinions.”

“I don’t know if it’s a matter of opinion,” I say. “It’s gorgeous.”

Now that I think about it, it suits her. I can’t imagine her living anywhere else. Her home is as beautiful and enchanting as she is.

“It’s not the coziest,” she says as we approach an enormous arched doorway. Sophie pauses, then digs inside her cleavage.

“Forgive me,” she says.

For what? I want to ask. For being impossibly endearing?

“Got it,” she says, pulling out a large iron key.

“That can’t be comfortable,” I say, “to have that wedged in your bra.”

“No more comfortable than the bra itself,” she says. “All right, welcome home.”

She pushes open the door, its hinges howling in complaint.

We step into a grand foyer. Far, far above me hangs the largest chandelier I’ve ever seen. Layers of crystals dripping, shimmering in the light, projecting pastels along the limestone walls.

A majestic staircase coils its way up, up, up. There’s an ornate gold banister on one side, on the other a series of Gothic wrought iron sconces.

“Don’t look at anything for too long,” she says. “You’ll see cobwebs. Dancing dust mites. This place is terribly difficult to maintain.”

“Uh, yeah. I’d imagine. You clean it yourself?”

She nods. “Mm. Sometimes I invite in some woodland creatures. They sweep. I sing.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll give you the tour some other time,” she says, “when I know it’s clean. Kitchen is this way.”

We make a left through one of the many archways. She leads me down a long, bright hallway. A collection of mirrors hangs on the walls, each a different style and shape. Some have thick decorative frames; others are simple, understated. They’re all placed in various spots along the walls. There’s no discernible pattern, but there is an order about their placement. Everything is where it’s meant to be.

“These mirrors are beautiful,” I say, trying not to stare at my own reflection. My hair is disheveled from the walk. I pluck a small leaf out of my tangled ends and quickly tuck it into my bag.

“I’ve accumulated them over the years,” she says. “Seems narcissistic to collect mirrors. But I think there’s something special about mirrors. Art that frames you. They tell you the truth, if you look hard enough, for long enough. Do I sound completely pretentious?”

“No,” I say. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Forgive me. I’m old,” she says. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

How old could she possibly be? She couldn’t be over fifty. Not possible. I need this friendship to work, mostly because she’s warm and fun and funny and I love her, but also, I need to know what products she uses.

Probably La Mer.

“The kitchen is right over here,” she says. We duck through a low doorway. We walk down two steps and through another hallway, which opens up into a giant kitchen. Literally. A kitchen for giants.

Every piece of equipment, every appliance, every utensil, is gargantuan. There’s a stove the size of a Mini Cooper. A fireplace I could walk around inside. Copper pans hang from the ceiling. The floor is alternating black and red tiles.

Sophie glides over to the counter and sets the bag of berries down, then spins around to turn the oven on.

She begins to rummage through the cabinets and procure things. Bowls. Wooden spoons. Sieves. Canisters of flour and sugar. A set of tin measuring cups. A rolling pin.

“Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea? I have some lovely floral teas,” she says.

“Sure,” I say. “What can I do? Put the water on?”

She shakes her head, and in a swift motion, she turns the stove on, shifts a copper kettle over the flame and returns to setting up on the big butcher-block island.

She makes the dough, talking me through the process as she goes. I’m watching her closely, but I’m not listening to what she’s saying. It’s too hard to pay attention. She’s so mesmerizing. The sound of her voice. The grace and precision of her movements. She presses the dough into a white ceramic pie dish, pinching along the edges.

“Now,” she says, sliding the dish into the fridge, “the berries.”